


ǝ ɿ o l ʞ l o ʇ

by motherofrevels



Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [2]
Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Angst, Brother/Brother Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels
Summary: In the absence of his father, Iandore sets his sights on his next endeavor: His elder brother, Barley.CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot/Ian Lightfoot
Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972084
Comments: 31
Kudos: 31





	1. 🌑 a u g u s t 🌑

Summer vacation trundled in with the heedlessness of an ocean wave, and the brazen adventurer—known to his closest companions as _‘Sir Barley the Brave’_ —now found himself overlooking the guiltless visage of his younger sibling.

Fawn-like eyes bright and unassuming as they blinked up at him, and an exerted glow rushing just beneath the cashmere plains of sun-kissed cheekbones . . .

In the months succeeding his autumn exodus, life on-campus had been a maelstrom of new experiences. New bonds were built (and sometimes broken), and romances blossomed and withered; leaving the occasional fling to fill the glimmering rifts between rumored lovers.

Willowdale was a nacreous mural, and Barley had been its artisan—

“I- _Ian_?—Sir Iandore! What virtuous quest may hath beckoned thee to grace _my_ lowly countenance?!” the sonorous drama of Barley’s knightly baritone thundered along the empty halls beyond his room. He squandered little time lunging forward, hauling his frangible kin into a steely embrace. “Where’s _Mom_?! Did she bring you? No one tells me _anything_!”

Ian simply chuckled, allowing himself to be held for a moment before presenting a fidget of protest; Barley’s cue to release him.

“N-No . . . I took the subway, then caught a bus to campus,” he smiled, brows pinched into a timorous peak. “I-I wanted to _surprise_ you.”

Barley reared to his full might, balancing broad hands upon his loungewear-clad hips.

“Well, you _did_ it! I’m thoroughly surprised! But, y’know . . . We’re not really on break _here_ , little bro,” the brawny wanderer apprised, watching Ian’s expression dim in response. “But, I’m always happy to _see_ you!” he followed quickly, reaching to enclose slender shoulders beneath his toughened grip.

“I-I know, I just,” Ian extended a pause, gnawing at the inside of his cheek apprehensively. “I _miss_ you. A-And I really wanted to see you.”

For a time, Barley merely studied his brother’s pensive demeanor, drinking in the subtle cascade of high cheekbones into a marquise-cut jaw.

“ _Hey_ . . . I miss you, _too_ , buddy,” he began, guiding the enchanter into his dorm room. “You don’t really respond to texts or calls . . . I never see you on Wraithbooke,” he expounded, closing them inside. “If it hadn’t been for Mom gushing over your _grades_ every week? I would have—presumed you had mayhap eloped with a maiden most fair.”

With the return of his glistering drama, Barley flourished his hand; tracing a trail into the air between them with a cunning grin. And Ian shook his head, a playful roll of rounded eyes offered as he dropped his stratus-grey backpack onto the wooden floor behind him.

“It’s not the _same_ , Barley . . . I wouldn’t be able to see you. Not like _this_ ,” he smiled, sauntering up to his elder with an illegible expression.

The neon fabler tipped his head, quirking an unruly brow at his younger brother’s approach; soft hands raising to frame the stubble along his jaw.

“How about ClaqueChat?” the taller man suggested, a flush tinting his rugged features; finding himself gazed into as though he were ever-so hollow. “ _Ian—?”_

And then fell a kiss, coy and vestal; Barley’s eyes flaring wide as his hands elevated to hover in dissent . . . But he allowed the gossamer softness of the mage’s lips to linger, graceful fingers brushing at the prideful flourishes of his ears.

Ian’s tongue was honey-sweet as it pleaded for entrance; parting chapped lips with an unmatched tenderness—just as Barley’s coarsened palms lit his junior’s gaunt chest, coaxing him to break their endearment.

For a moment, the Lightfoot brothers merely examined each other; glassy eyes ensnared between desire and disbelief.

But their fragmented touches endured.

“Scratch that bit about the _maiden_ , then,” Barley attempted to jest, but he registered as startled. “I’m . . . a-at a loss for _words_ , my liege—”

“I-I thought . . . You _want_ me, right?” Ian interrupted, valentine eyes brimming with wounded pride. “I _know_ you do—”

“Woah, _woah_ , **_woah_** ,” Barley recoiled from his gifted kin; a queasy smile on his whiskered lips. “Look— _Ian_ , I mean—I don’t know where all this is _coming_ from, and I’m . . . I’m _really_ confused—”

“A-Am I _wrong_?” Ian pressed, gliding his touch from the Quest Master’s barbed jaw, to the broad strength of his chest.

And Barley wavered; unkempt brows raising—then furrowing—as he granted himself a single step back.

“I just . . . Can we _talk_? What’s gotten _into_ you?”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” the petite conjurer insisted, a scowl marring his youthful beauty as he followed his brother’s retreat with an approach.

“ _What_? I-Ian, I’m your _brother_ —”

“And you wanna _fuck_ me—”

“It’s not _about_ what **_I_** want!” Barley thundered, arms—like pillars of creation—subduing his willowy sibling. “I’ve got . . . I’m _with_ someone, Ian. And she’s _really_ special,” the hulking bard exhaled, eyes of molten flax descending to limber hands—now balled into fists at the front of his shirt.

“S-So maybe it’s time for a change,” Ian quipped, tone laced with fragrant poison as he endeavored to draw his brother closer.

A fool’s errand, to be sure.

“ _Ian_ ,” the older Lightfoot sighed, floating his grip from the wizard’s level chest to the placid slope of his shoulders. It allowed them a dash more intimacy, while allowing Barley command over his junior’s distance. “If you _knew_ . . . then why did you _wait_?”

The question tasted bitter on his lips; sullen amber rising to greet the blameless façade of lambent axinite.

“B-Because I was _scared_ ,” Ian murmured, his grip on Barley’s musky t-shirt tempering slightly.

“And I _wasn’t_ scared?” his elder contended, tone incredulous. “How—Do you have any _idea_ what it feels like? Being _in-love_ with you? My baby brother? Who—Who I’m supposed to be _protecting_?”

Iandore faltered, worrying his lower lip; musing over his hero’s words.

“How . . . does it feel—?”

“Like every time I look at you, I’m _failing_ ,” Barley spat, jaw tightening as if to keep himself from conceding a single utterance more.

“I-I’m _sorry_ —”

“You need to go _home_ , Ian,” Barley countered, penumbral rings of Midas gold sodden with dissension. “Either I can take you, or you can take the subway. But, you can’t stay. I’ve got work to do, and I’ve got a roommate—”

“But _Mom_ told me he was gone until the end of August—”

“And you thought, _what_? You were gonna crash here, _tempt me_ , and turn my life upside down for a week?” Barley groused, entombed in grief and resentment. “ _Thanks_ , Ian. Thanks a lot.”

With this, the willowy magus allowed his hands to fall from the quester’s chest; doe-eyes unfocused as he struggled to harmonize his sentiments.

“D-Do you still feel the same way?” he inquired meekly, watching as his brother stepped away to slip into his trademark vest and a pair of tattered plimsolls.

“Feel _what_?” the sturdy Lightfoot grumbled, snatching a familiar set of keys from his desk.

“Are you still . . . in-love with me?” Ian questioned, incapable of meeting his sibling’s gaze even as the man loomed just overhead.

And Barley chuckled—albeit darkly—raising a calloused hand to caress his brother’s cherubic curls; drawing him into a single-armed embrace not a moment later.

“I’m gonna be in-love with you until the day I die, Iandore . . . Maybe even _after_ . . . But that doesn’t mean it’s meant to be.”


	2. 🌒 i l l i c i t   a f f a i r s 🌒

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "W-Why not just let yourself have what you want?”

It was all-too-easy to say ‘no’. A demure, two letter word that would mean the difference between remaining faithful to his lover of over a year, and the lissome youth straddling his hips; grinding into the hardness in his boxers

“I can’t do this,” Barley grumbled, voice stained beneath the burden of his own desires. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he reiterated, fresh-cut rose staining his unkempt features as calloused hands wandered hipbones and vertebrae.

“You’re already _doing_ it,” Iandore breathed from his place atop his sibling, purposefully rolling his hips to stimulate the other’s concealed manhood. “W-Why not just let yourself have what you _want_?”

The elder Lightfoot furrowed his scruffy brows, swallowing nervously as he allowed his coarsened thumbs to glide along the softness of his junior’s exposed skin.

“You _know_ why,” he contested, drawing a breath between clenched teeth at the pressure building in his loins. “You’re my _brother_ , a-and I have a _girl_ —”

“Well, she’s not here,” Ian countered, the smirk on his lips dissolving into a well-practiced pout. “But, _I’m_ here . . . A-And _I’m_ the one you want right now.”

It was an allegation that Barley couldn’t deny, try as he might.

His younger sibling’s adoration was an addictive and ever-potent neurotoxin—and in their present position—one with the added benefit of vetoed indulgences.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Barley questioned, a steady breath exhaled as the freckled conjurer stooped to light a chaste kiss upon his stubbled lips; the sweet impact enticing a grunt from the neon rogue.

With this, the greater man exhausted his equanimity; barbed lips parting to claim the optically vestal mouth of his gifted junior—misaligned teeth catching sun-kissed petals as tongues charted forbidden territories.

“Gods, you taste so sweet,” Barley groaned, eying his sibling through the obscurity of his yearning.

“Sweeter than _her_?” the magus tested, alto sugar-glazed as it drizzled into his brother’s flourished ears.

But Barley hesitated, lips parted in preparation to respond, but settled on devouring the kiss-swollen ones before his own. Toughened hands wandered the silken plains of his sibling’s petite frame, while voracious kisses trailed down an elongated throat and placid shoulders.

“Don’t do that,” Barley retorted, voice thick and brusque as he guided his mouth to the hairless hollow of Iandore’s chest.

Greedy lips caught the apex of a nipple then; a lecherous tongue flicking to tease one hardened nub before gliding to the next, teeth grazing and biting in hopes of an audible reward.

And rewarded he was; Ian’s hushed whimpers filling the flimsy silence of the Quest Master’s cluttered room as his elder strove to sensitize and abuse the blushed peaks of his lithe bust.

“Barley, e-ease up. I’m gonna wake mom—”

“Half the magic is made by the _challenge_ , young mage,” Barley rebutted, leaning to place two more (especially careless) bites into Ian’s delicate nipples—eliciting a series of sharp gasps.

“W-What if she hears—?”

“What if she _does_? Is she gonna _scold_ me for being _bad_?” the bigger man opposed—easily lifting the little enchanter from his lap to overturn their positions—strong arms pressing the lanky youth into the musk and disarray of his bedsheets. “Isn’t that what you _want_? You _want_ me to be _bad_ , right? You want me to— _what_ —cheat on my girlfriend? _Fuck_ my little brother? That’s the kinda guy you want me to _be_ , right?”

Barley’s voice donned an edge that Iandore hadn’t expected. And as he lay there, bewildered and reaching for a reply, his elder pressed on:

“Does that guy sound like a _hero_ to you? Someone you could _look up_ to?” Barley gritted his teeth; hunger in his eyes and malice on his lips. “Would that make me a _good big brother_? Is that what it would take for you to be _proud_ of me? Or would I still be a _screwup_ to you?”

“B-Barley, I—”

“I come home for break, to spend time with my family—spend time with _you_ —and I’m not home for a single fucking night, before you’re in here trying to drag me down some rabbit hole of illicit affairs?”

Ian merely observed him; pools of molten flax brimming with unshed grievance.

“ _Fuck_ you, Ian. Do you have any idea how _hard_ this is for me? Just—Do you even _care_?”

“I-I’m _sorry_ , Barley—”

“If you were fucking _sorry_ , you would have _stopped_ when I _asked_ you to. Stopped with the dirty texting, stopped with the slutty pictures—”

“You’re _hurting_ me—”

“You’re hurting me, _too_!” Barley snapped, a single tear falling from a narrowed eye. “You’re confusing me, a-and you’re _scaring_ me, and I don’t wanna lose you but, gods be _damned_ , Ian—Don’t make me choose between you and her,” the older Lightfoot rasped, a hitch in his breath drawn between bared teeth. “Don’t make me choose between two people I _love_.”

With a shuddering breath and a rueful sniffle, Barley lowered his lips to press a barbate kiss into his sibling’s temple.

“Now get back upstairs go the _fuck_ to bed, before I carry you up there myself,” he ordered, lifting calloused palms from their place pressed into the slopes of lean shoulders.

Valentine eyes watched as the stout wanderer shifted to seat himself upon the edge of his bed; golden gaze unfocused as he anticipated his junior’s obedience. With an unrivaled stealth and timidity, Ian slid from the tangle of sheets and discarded campaigns to light alongside his elder for a moment of reticence.

It felt as though hours had come to pass before Iandore rose to a stand, taking not more than a single step away from Barley before his wrist was caught; rounded eyes darting to meet glassy pools of Midas-gold.

“I _love_ you, Ian,” the older Lightfoot muttered, expression illegible as he thumbed across the tender knuckles within his calloused grip. “I’m sorry if I . . . If I _hurt_ you. I’m _so_ sorry—”

“We’re cool,” Ian countered, pursing the fullness of his lips as he slid from his brother’s grasp, padding toward the poster-riddled exit. “Night, Barley.”

With this, he crept into the stillness of night; disallowing his sibling a single utterance more as he clicked the rusted doorknob to a close.


	3. 🌗 t h i s   i s   m e   t r y i n g 🌗

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truthfully, any location would have been more beguiling than this one; seated before his elder brother and his Willowdale beau.

Horizons of ceaseless melancholy hung overhead, unleashing a deluge the likes of which the youngest Lightfoot had only ever seen in midsummer night cinema screenings. And oh, how he longed to stand beneath it—arms outstretched as he whirled like a madman finally tasting delectable lucidity.

Truthfully, _any_ location would have been more beguiling than this one; seated before his elder brother and his Willowdale beau, inwardly wincing every time she would catch his gaze as he toyed with his malted milkshake.

Some girl named . . .

Well, he couldn’t recall.

But _whoever_ she was, she was the most ravishing creature he’d ever laid eyes upon; and everything about her fit effortlessly against the shape of his brother’s body.

There was no awkwardness between them.

No _‘making it work’_.

They simply _fit_.

They were perfect, and Iandore hated every magnificent moment of their knowing mutual glances and intermittent personal jests.

It was a kind of agony that made him want to scream, weep, and retch all at once. There was absolutely no delight to be derived from this introduction. But it had been essential to _Barley_ —or so he’d claimed—and Ian would be damned if he would miss any invitation to bask beneath his brother’s solar radiance.

So here they sat, at a charming little café near his sibling’s illustrious university, grasping at half-hearted conversations as they pushed around their lunches to the treble-laden echo of a vintage radio station.

“So, Ian,” the newcomer began, voice breathy and sweet on her lips as dense lashes fluttered in his direction. “Barley let me know that your _Dad_ went to Willowdale, too, back in the day,” she smiled, brows creasing in compassion as she caught sight of the mage visibly stiffen at the mention of his father. “I-I just wondered if you were going to carry on the tradition! You know, your Dad was a student here, now Barley . . . Maybe _you_ could be next?”

A dense, nebulous discomfort fell amongst them for a time. Barley’s ardent chewing slowed to a halt as golden eyes darted anxiously between his brother and his girlfriend; a clear of his throat offered as he scrambled to ignite the air with banter before his brother could reply—

“M- _Maybe_ ,” Ian answered, his tone calm and hollow as it slithered between them; full lips parting to sip from his cream-embellished beverage. “Guess I hadn’t thought about it,” he added, attempting to fill the void in his tone. “I-I’m gonna use the restroom.”

With this, he slid from his place in the booth, tossing the elven couple a lightless smile before leveling himself to wander aimlessly toward the back of the eatery.

The men’s room wasn’t marked with a sign, but he knew well-enough to presume it to be on the left—a tasteless joke driven into him by his stepfather—pushing his way into the dank little space as axinite eyes trailed across the cracks and corrosion etched into the tiled floor from years of wear. Fluorescent lighting flickered menacingly from its place above him; the resplendent tide of his Heart’s Fire always seemed to cause aged electrical wiring to labor.

And as he moved before the lightly rusted mirror, finding unblemished eyes peering back at him—sunken, weary, and riddled with incongruity—he cracked a smirk at his own visage.

“ _You look like shit_ ,” he murmured, the step in his teeth exposed as lush lips tugged into a wry smile.

Ample brows drawn as he heaved an exasperated sigh, the waifish enchanter reached to leaf through the layers of his hoodie and button-up. Nimble fingers catching the chilled firmness of his pocketed flask, Iandore pulled his poison from its hiding place and uncapped it for a sharp drink—

The rasping echo of the door opening behind him caused every muscle in his body to go rigid, but he held his carriage, continuing to swallow the fire of his liquor as though it were the antidote he so desperately needed.

“ _What_ —,” came a broken inquiry, the familiar sound of his older sibling’s voice glancing along the pallid walls of the restroom. “Ian? _What_ is that?”

A leer of liquid flax bore-into a narrow frame as Iandore allowed the flask to fall from his lips at length; fawn-like eyes steadying themselves upon the mirror to examine the reflection of their hero.

“Just a little something for the road,” the wizard replied, valentine gaze observing his elder’s parallel. “ _Why_? You gonna tell Mom?”

Barley swallowed, unkempt brows knitted in their place above his sumptuous stare, sneakers carrying him to light just-behind his frail sibling . . .

“ _Gimme_ that,” the stout fabler castigated, reaching to pluck the simple silver flask from Ian’s delicate grip, raising it to his own lips and throwing it back—grimacing at the flavor. “Fucking _whiskey_?” Barley gritted; teeth bared at the taste.

The elder Lightfoot observed his junior’s reflection, rounded eyes peering back at him as though they were torn between prudence and entertainment.

“Always took you for a _vodka_ kinda guy,” Barley attempted a jest, clearing the burn from his throat as he pocketed the emptied flask with no intention of returning it to his baby brother. “Wouldst thou turn and grace me with thine countenance, Sir Iandore?” he paused, allowing his sibling a moment to obey, but found his request to be denied.

And so, with a roll of his eyes, the strapping wanderer seized the tender shoulders of his slighter companion; coaxing him into a swift rotation.

Molten-amber seared along the pastel conjurer, bearing down on cherubic curls for a moment or two before a toughened hand was brought to the slope of a heart-shaped jaw; tipping it back and forcing their eyes to meet.

Briefly, the Lightfoot brothers merely savored the polarity of each other’s gaze—sunset intermingling with dusk—Barley’s calloused thumb smoothing across the dewy silk of his junior’s skin.

“I’m not gonna tell _Mom_ , but I need you to tell me what’s going on,” the Quest Master breathed; voice low and steady as he explored the kisses of garnet within his brother’s faultless eyes.

Iandore tsked, endeavoring to drift from the roughened fingers supporting his chin, but found himself held firmly in-place by the greater man’s second hand.

And then came a sigh, bathed in malt and liquor.

“I-I’m . . . I’ve just been _missing_ you, man” he conceded, sinking his gaze to venerate the regal swell of cerulean mane along his elder’s jawline. “Really sucks not having you around . . . A-And when you _are_ , I keep fucking things up.”

Barley’s expression tempered; coarsened grip adjusting to draw his willowy sibling against his breadth, tucking seraphic gyres beneath the bearded graze of his chin.

“I know. _I know_ . . . We’re gonna get _through_ this, Ian,” Barley swore, swallowing the tightness in his throat as he allowed his hands to map the budding geometry that marked his brother’s flourish into adulthood. “We just have to _try_ —”

“This _is_ me trying,” Ian countered, allowing himself to relish in the familiar bouquet of pheromones and firewood that made up his elder’s scent, before tilting away. “Now, let’s get back to your girl before my buzz wears off.”

Following a moment of deliberation, Barley nodded in agreement, relinquishing his grasp upon the tenuous spellcaster only to catch his wrist a moment later.

“ _Hey_ ,” the neon voyager called, earning himself a halfhearted glance over the waning stoop of a delicate shoulder. “At least you’re _trying_.”

With this, he allowed his sibling to slip from his grasp; Iandore exiting the flicker and dinge of the restroom without another word.

Leaving Barley to watch after him until the door obscured his view, lost to a newfound roil of anachronistic sentiments.


	4. 🌔 m i r r o r b a l l 🌔

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aside from his mother, the svelte magician knew his father’s countenance better than anyone living. And regardless of the fragranced gentleman’s claims, he found himself caught between bewilderment and skepticism.

The lethargic babble of saxophone cavorted beneath the delicate clamor of clinking glasses and idle talk; beer-lights scarcely cutting through a shroud of smoke and vapor, illuminating the organized chaos of the pub in a sequence of dismal hues.

Eyes of bloodied-chocolate admired the amber liquid lining the bottom of the glass before them, their bearer pondering the prospect of downing the remnants—

“This seat taken?” a voice rang from their right; warm, velveteen and strikingly familiar.

The stranger lingered for a moment to cuff his sleeves, then sat himself next to the willowy youth at the bar.

“You know, I typically have this section all to myself,” he informed, baritone kissing flourished ears with a visible perk.

Iandore’s eyes rounded in realization—whirling to face the stranger in a gesture so sudden, he nearly fell from his stool—consuming the sight of a man he’d spent his entire life pursuing.

“D- _Dad_?” Ian piped, earning himself a circumspect glance from the bartender.

But the Elven stranger merely shook his head, smiling subtly as he extended a fragranced hand to his cherubic acquaintance.

“An honest mistake,” he quipped, timbre cloaked in audible cashmere as it glided between them. “Hoarfrost,” he offered briefly, “ _Holden_ Hoarfrost.”

Ian appeared bemused, mind floundering through the weight of his intoxication as he labored to separate the stranger before him from the image of his father. But with trembling fingers, he accepted the hand he was offered, awarding it a reticent shake.

“I-Ian . . . _Just_ Ian,” he introduced, supple brows quirked in uncertainty as he examined the newcomer a little more closely.

Aside from his mother, the svelte magician knew his father’s countenance better than anyone living. And regardless of the fragranced gentleman’s claims, he found himself caught between bewilderment and skepticism.

“ _Just Ian_ , eh?” Holden smiled, raising a ringed hand to draw the barkeep’s attention. “Evening, sir. Two whiskeys, if you will?”

Upon his optically familiar companion receiving a nod of confirmation from the bartender, Ian’s brow furrowed a bit more deeply.

“I-I don’t have any money left for another drink,” he warned, bleary eyes unable to tear themselves away from the bearded gentleman.

“The drink is a _gift_ . . . Where once there were pomegranates, now there is liquor,” the taller man jested, a desolation in his gaze that filled the spellcaster with dread. “ _However_ ,” he began, pivoting to face the little fey directly. “I’d like for this to be your last one, and I’d like for you to tell me how long you’ve been utilizing that false identification.”

And Ian balked, astonishment tinting his visage before plummeting into a scowl.

“I-I don’t know what you’re _talking_ about,” he murmured, eyes flitting to read the barkeep as he set two freshly filled glasses before them.

“Don’t fret. He only hears what I allow him to,” Holden assured, a polite nod offered in the server’s direction. “And you know _exactly_ what I’m speaking of—”

“Who even _are_ you?” Ian seethed, rearing back and nearly plummeting from his stool once again. “This—This has _gotta_ be a dream—”

“I’ve already introduced myself,” the spiced gentleman interrupted, reaching to grasp a delicate shoulder to steady his company’s swaying form. “And I _assure_ you, this is _no_ dream . . . If it were, then I should think it wouldn’t be a very _pleasant_ one. What with you barely old enough to drive, sitting here vulnerable and surrounded by dangerous men.”

But Ian scoffed; weary eyes narrowing as he reached for his drink.

“I-I’m not a _kid_. And I’m not _vulnerable_ . . . There’s no one here but a bunch of _old men_. I-I could take any one of these guys.”

And then came a laugh—audible mania held therein that caught Iandore off his guard—the stranger plucking his own drink from the polished woodgrain.

“Forgive me, it always humors me when you feign control,” he replied, tone melodious as he allowed himself a hearty swig of his whiskey.

The freckled conjurer shook his head then, watching liquid amber ebb and flow between mustached lips.

“Y-You’re _confusing_ me,” Ian murmured, realizing at length that he was indeed thoroughly intoxicated. “I-I don’t—”

“ _Funny_ you say that,” the taller man disrupted, quickly tossing back the remainder of his drink. “You’ve always had a way of confusing _me_ , yourself.”

Setting his freshly emptied glass back onto the bar, Holden studied his fragile acquaintance’s dazed countenance behind the golden gleam of aviator frames.

“Do you enjoy _Jazz_ , Just Ian?” he inquired next, “Or does this pub hold sentimental value to you?”

And through the numbness of his liquor, Ian answered:

“M-My _Dad_ —”

“Of course,” his reply was interrupted by a rueful chuckle, a shake of his companion’s head offered as he reached to pluck a cigar from the breast pocket of his button-up. “The sins of the father.”

Iandore studied the barbate stranger as he lit his cigar and took a lengthy drag; sweetly fragranced smoke billowing around him for a moment—causing his petite companion to recoil.

“W-What are you _talking_ about?” the magus wheezed, brows taught as he waved the smoke from his face to no avail.

But with a sigh of relief—and a decompression of his posture—Holden ignored him.

“What drives you to drink, my boy?” came the elder’s inquiry, eyes of honeyed-olive zeroing in on confectioner’s chocolate. “Awfully young to be in so much _pain_.”

“I-I’m not _that_ young—”

“Too young for that drink.”

“You _bought_ it for me,” Ian spat, youthful beauty marred by a pout as he raised his glass to down its contents, wincing at the burn. “Thanks for the drink. I-I gotta go—”

“I’ll drive you home,” the stranger decided, stamping his freshly-lit cigar into his emptied glass as he stood to retrieve his wallet.

“I don’t need a ride. I-I know where I am. The bus stop’s right on the corner—”

“Not very observant, for a lad so bright,” Holden interjected, tossing a few too many bills onto the bar before tucking his billfold away. “Have you bothered to take any notice of the way these men have been eying you?” he inquired, a subtle tilt of his head offered to force Ian’s focus behind them and into the crowd; a succession of salacious leers steadied upon him.

Following a moment of contemplation, Ian shrugged; swaying faintly as he turned himself back to face the newcomer.

“They’re . . . looking at me the same way _you’re_ looking at me,” he murmured, blinking slowly as a subsequent wave of intoxication found him.

At this, Holden offered another chuckle, humming his approval as he extended a broad hand to the little mage.

“ _Do_ forgive me for admiring the view,” the elder quipped, waiting until his hand was (rather hesitantly) accepted before guiding his drunken company into an unsteady rise. “If you wouldn’t like me to escort you home, at least allow me to ensure you catch your bus. Or perhaps, a cab?”  
  
Iandore heaved a sigh then, resting the fullness of his weight against his acquaintance as he was guided toward the entrance of the pub; Holden nodding cordially to the doorman as they pushed outside and into the dwindling bustle of downtown New Mushroomton.

Early Spring had fallen upon the city, but in the absence of sunlight, the air still held an exceptionally bitter chill.

“Remind me where the nearest bus stop might be—?”

“They’re not . . . actually running this late ,” Ian interposed, blinking languidly as he studied a piece of debris gusting along the asphalt. “I-I just—I thought it would get you to leave me _alone_ ,” he confessed, shrugging as he swayed in his place beneath the stranger’s guidance.

His eccentric company merely observed him, silently awaiting as little as a glance in return; though his barren leer went entirely unobserved.

“I _see_ . . . Well, that being the case, might you allow me to hail you a cab?” the taller man tried next—receiving an incredulous glance.

“Why are you being so _nice_? I-If you’re just trying to _fuck_ me, can we just . . . skip over all this chivalrous _bullshit_ —?”

“This isn’t a lifetime in which you and I were destined to entwine,” Holden interrupted, appraising the glister adorning the wizard’s cheekbones; traces of mirrorball shattered against flushed blue-rose. “But if I hadn’t _come_ . . . Well, nevermind that. Will I be hailing you a cab? Or will I be driving you home?”

Visibly perplexed and reaching for comprehension through the haze of his liquid lull; Iandore settled upon a pensive sigh.

“S- _Sure_ . . . I-I guess you could drive me home . . . But, if you’re planning on killing me on the way there, would you make it _painless_? A-And make it a _surprise_?”

With this, the two merely assessed each other for a reaction—Holden offering a rueful nod, while Ian giggled obtusely.

“As you wish,” Holden mumbled, drawing his lissome companion ever closer as he guided them both along the pavement.

Until the ruddy neon of the pub moniker no longer bathed their achromatic trail in rays of scarlet.

And thus, the angel of death would lose her first coveted victim of the night.

Stolen by the echo of a father’s love.


	5. 🌕 c a r d i g a n 🌕

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then came a silence—null and bleak.

It was a late summer night like any other; double moonlight illuminating the muted darkness of a charming suburban home in a silver veil—every eye within the Lightfoot residence relinquished to the blissful embrace of slumber . . .

Until a gentle humming sounded throughout the uppermost room, luring valentine-eyes from their dusky solace and into the fervent cruelty of the waking world.

Agile hands clambered to pluck their bearer’s phone from the nightstand, a weary mind wading through fluxes of bewilderment at the familiar name upon the chilled glass screen.

And at the caller’s behest, they received an answer.

“ _Barley_ . . . It’s almost four in the morning,” Ian croaked, finding his lips laboring to articulate through the weight of his exhaustion.

“ _Ian_ ,” Barley began, shadowed by a lengthy pause, “I need to talk to you.”

At the tension in his elder’s baritone, Iandore wrenched himself from the lavish clutches of lethargy.

“O-Okay . . . Is everything _alright_?—”

“Could you come downstairs?” the voyager beseeched, “Look, I _know_ it’s late, but I just . . . I’m out front.”

And then came a silence—null and bleak.

A torrent of inquiries inundated the conjurer’s mind—anxiousness guiding willowy limbs into a timorous stand—while supple fingers pulled an off-season garb from his bedpost to cloak the perpendicular slope of his shoulders.

Over the years, Ian had become proficient at slinking from place to place; his mother always having been a rather light sleeper, and far too paranoid to allow even the _faintest_ noise within her home go unimpeded. So with unrivaled restraint, he slipped from his room and descended the staircase—mindful of the creakiest panels as he went—before reaching the entryway of his childhood dwelling.

Just outside, his brother would be anticipating his arrival; golden eyes and silver tongue primed for a conversation that perhaps neither of them would be ever be wholly prepared for.

The remnants of Spring and beginnings of Summer had slipped by without so much as a pulse on the magician’s radar—memories lost to liquor and his mother’s unused (thoroughly expired) antidepressants.

But here, in the wee hours of the morning, Iandore found himself painted in hues of vibrant lucidity.

And so, he unlocked the threshold to his humble abode—suddenly thankful for Colt’s efforts to keep the hinges thoroughly oiled—before escaping into the tropic embrace of late-July.

The second-edition of his brother’s handcrafted steed was parked vertically along the pavement, though not aligned especially well. Yet there he was, languidly draped against the muraled door of his vehicle, large fists rested into the pockets of his paint-streaked sweatpants.

Barley Lightfoot—adorned in a regal beard, gibbous spectacles, and lengthy hair tied up and away from his ruggedly handsome features—had grown into a Midasian doppelgänger of a man that Iandore had spent much of the preceding two years pursuing from sunsets to dreamscapes.

And beneath the spectral blossom of moonlight, clarity seemed decisively within his grasp.

Bare feet padding along the disjointed cobblestones making up their walkway, the frangible spellcaster settled before his sibling at length.

“W- _Why_? What are you _doing_ here?” he queried, keeping a guarded distance from the Quest Master to scrutinize his disheveled attire and sleepless eyes.

For a time, Barley allowed an easy silence to flourish between them; a weary gaze of treasured gold trailing from the younger Lightfoot’s exposed legs, up to the hem of his oversized cardigan—which appeared to be all he’d bothered to drape himself in before exiting their home.

“We need to talk,” the fabler respired, pausing to swallow apprehensively, “About _Heather_ —”

“I’d rather not—”

“I broke it off with her,” Barley pressed, noble eyes marred by dissension as he glid them along the slivers of periwinkle skin he found here and there about his brother’s torso.

But Ian held his tongue, winding limber arms across his ribs, contemplating his elder’s words.

“ _Look_ , I just . . . I know we . . . ” the chronicler trailed, striving to collect his thoughts, “These last few years have been hard for you. I _know_ that. _Trust_ me . . . They’ve been hard on me, too.”

Fawn-like eyes flitted to the gamer’s tattooed bicep, devouring the periodic ripple of dense muscle beneath an ample layer of bulk.

“I’ve been trying to be _good_ to you. Trying to do the right thing . . . But I’ve been _hurting_ you. And hurting _you_ has been hurting _me_ . . .” the older Lightfoot elucidated, night-clad hazel convening with moonstone. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past few months . . . And I think we need to talk about us—You and I.”

With this, a waning tranquility fell between them; doe-eyes brimming with tenderness as full lips parted in wonder.

And it was Barley who made the first move, pulling calloused hands from paint-smeared pockets to reach for his muse; drawing him to rest against the balmy strength of his broad chest.

“You gonna leave me _hanging_ here?” he grumbled, a tremor in his voice as he contested the swell of his emotions—apexed ears catching the prognostic heaves of sobbing against his well-worn band tee. “ _Ah_ . . . The lad doth _protest_ —”

“N- _No_ ,” Ian muttered, balling supple fists into the faded cotton before him. “I-I just . . . I don’t know what to say—” a pause for a hiccup, muffled by warmth and bulk —“What do you . . . W-What are you _saying_?”

At this, Barley offered a chuckle; coaxing his sibling back so as to meet his gaze.

“I’m _saying_ . . . I never wanted you to think of me as desperate, or helpless. I’m your big brother. I wanna be _strong_ for you,” the quester reasoned, a mellow smile upon his bristled lips. “But I’m desperately, helplessly _in-love_ with you, and I’m tired of hating myself for it.”

Barley’s confession—prolonged as it was—echoed throughout the wizard’s mind like a serenade; relief-sweetened breaths hitching in Ian’s lungs as he found coarsened hands caressing the delicate marquise of his jawline.

And he was lost to bliss; seasons of dissonance renounced through sobs kissed by mirth as he allowed himself to be held through the downpour of his fervor.

How many sleepless nights had he longed to be assuaged in this way? To bear witness to such a confession? To be entrusted with Barley’s heart?

When had so much bitterness bloomed between them? When had he permitted their love—as both brothers and comrades—to fragment so entirely?

But when at last his tears subsided, he found he only had himself to blame; years of selfishness and petulance divulged behind the shattered crystalline walls he’d erected around himself, perhaps even before his collective quest nearly two years prior.

“I’m _sorry_ , Barley. I-I’m sorry for _everything_ ,” he pleaded, voice scarcely audible in the aftermath of his sincerity. “I don’t know _how_ I could ever fix—”

But his fluttering admittance was quelled by a gentle hushing; dense thumbs smoothing away the remnants of his tears.

“We’ve got time for all that _later_ ,” Barley reasoned, beaming down at his frail accomplice with all the pride and adoration one would expect of a father-figure. “But, for right now . . .” he resumed, trailing a toughened caress along the mage’s jaw. “Could we try that kiss again?”

So it was—as if by magic—an endearment.

An illustration of romance birthed from years of devotion.

Until the ambivalent glisten of daybreak would rouse Iandore from his heart’s inmost desire, abandoning him with only the remembrance of Barley’s kiss.

Tasting of folklore, in theory and practice.


End file.
